"They Spaniards!" he snorted. "What are they a-doin' here anyway, I'd like to know?"
"He may have been blown north on his crossing," I hazarded.
Master Jenkins snorted a second time.
"He hasn't started a rope. Mischief they're up to. Never knowed it to fail."
"What kind of mischief?" I inquired.
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Not knowin', can't say. But no good ever came from they Spaniards, Master Ormerod, and ye may lay to that."
Before I could answer him the bosun reported the small boat all clear and lying at the ladder-foot, and I bade Master Jenkins a hasty good evening, for his stolid pessimism became mighty irksome upon close acquaintance.
As my boat straightened away from the Bristol packet's side a barge shot around the hull of the Spaniard and pulled after us, a dozen brawny fellows tugging at the oars. A single cloaked figure sat in the stern sheets beside the officer in command. The two boats made the Broad Street slip almost together, and I leaped ashore, tossed several coins to the sailors who had rowed me and started to walk off, bent upon reporting to my father, who, I knew, would be provoked by the length of time my errand had consumed. But I had not walked far when a man called after me from the wharf-head.
"Señor! Sirr-rr-rah!"